And so as the flowers blossomed,
The castle walls melted.
The clearing gusts of spring,
Crisp, clean and scented.
A thousand unsynchronised wars,
Distinguished and dismantled.
Revealing myriads of opened doors,
Offering refuge for the trampled.
The old and decayed,
Rejuvenated beyond recognition,
Answering every word prayed,
Restoring lost intuition.
Archaic outdated customs rewritten,
Giving again rhythm to the stagnant.
Shining warmth upon frostbitten,
Repuzzling every broken fragment.
The seasons would change over,
Challenging the flowers existence,
Altering forces would attempt to takeover,
Seeking to nullify resistance.
But the bestowed wisdom was awake,
And the flowers were free,
They could not break,
They were as malleable as the sea.
She said to me,
Brave young boy,
Why are you so sad?
Mamma, I want to die,
I don’t think I can do it.
Tears rushing down her face,
She grabbed my hand and,
She said to me,
Brave young boy,
We will get through it together.
And so we did.
One day at a time,
We marched on.
I owe my life to that woman,
And I’d give it all up for her,
If only she would let me,
Let me wear the armour for a while.
After being captivated by Sara Pascoe’s podcast Sex Power Money, I began to be acutely aware of society and the media talk about sex work and sex workers. I was hooked by this podcast. I think mostly because I love learning about topics that I have never given too much thought to. At least, not such deep thought. I love listening to something or reading something that challenges my views. Often views that I have subconsciously taken from societal norms.
In one episode, Sara and her guest are talking about the difference between the reporting of crimes involving sex workers…
Have you ever had one of those days — one of those weeks even — where even your favourite songs don’t sound the same? When your favourite foods don’t taste the same?
If someone was to read what I so often write, I assume that they would think that I am clinically depressed.
By only examining their poems, I like to imagine that Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton could have led seemingly normal, happy lives — with their demons being kept a secret to all but their journals. I imagine that their writing was only an outlet for those days…
Just three measly lines
Shit, what do I want to say?
Quick get to the punch…
Maybe if I allow myself a few more words,
And I change up the structure,
I can save this mess of a poem,
Tape up the metaphorical rupture.
To gain from each reader a clap and a view,
I could convert my poem into a list!
Thank the heavens for Medium,
Says my family when I greet them,
They sit at the table,
I have to tell them a fable,
’Cause I don’t have enough money to feed em.
If only I could stop rhyming,
Put an end to this bullshit I’m typing.
I could stop hearing all of this whining,
And realise, that the god damn sun is shining.
A thousand screens,
Absorbing the minds of a thousand teens.
A thousand dreams,
Squandered by the rigidity of what normal means.
A thousand screams,
Suppressed inside like a can of sardines.
A thousand machines,
Rewriting the intricacy of our delicate genes.
A poem about poetry
Ink hits the page
Letters take their form
Dye resting on the surface
Slowly sinking into the paper
It all seems too permanent
The poems all incomplete
Like I am
Even once dry
Faults and quirks
I strike them out
Leaving blemishes on the pages
A sign of my insecurities
Of my failings
Of my growth
Scanning the text
Like staring into the mirror
With my soul staring back
Through the eyes of one
As the people demanded,
I rented out an apartment.
Not particularly lavish or large,
But that’s just how it started.
The demand kept growing,
So I gave out a little more space,
As long as they locked up,
I was content; a servant to grace.
As the bodies grew thicker,
I had nothing left to give,
They were banging on the doors,
Encroaching on how I could live.
I knew they would break out,
Insisting more and more,
Marching on the streets,
Commencing a civil uproar.
The whole area was occupied,
No room left to think,
I should have acted earlier,
vessel for wondrous,
beauty in the uncomely
nudge to heed the hint
For me, the use of the fruit fly in science is a reminder to look deeper into the beauty that is the natural world. On the surface, fruit flies and their relatives appear to be annoying and insignificant. Despite this, apart from their use in the labs, they are responsible for pollinating plants, decomposing dead organisms, and act as biocontrol agents feeding on pests. We have so much to learn from the smallest of our critters on earth.
Studying medicine, I was constantly amazed by how intricate and…
Drinking a wine on an empty belly,
In waft the fumes of the pork belly,
I sway into the tree,
Fall into a pile of debris,
Thank God they’re all watching telly.
After a faint knock at the door,
Like soldiers marching off to war,
They make their way in,
With beer, wine and gin,
We eat until we cannot eat anymore,
Time to pass around the presents,
I shake for a clue of the contents,
Are they socks,
Or maybe some jocks,
The most important of all sacraments.
I stumble around in my new loafers,
The family passed out on…
Writing about the world and how I fit into it. Lover of languages and literature